For some unknown blasphemous reason, Herthusalia, the Greek goddess of bad hair cuts and hair days has visited her wrath upon me. I don’t know how I might have offended her. It might have been my random experiments with various shampoos, my inability to commit to one brush, an over use of rubber bands and hair pins, or perhaps my refusal to commit to one specific hair dresser. Ever since I left the kind and malleable hands of my hair dresser in Michigan, it’s been as if I was the one who shot the albatross. It now hangs around my neck and shoulders in the form of an overgrown mullet.
It wasn’t until today, after I washed and dried my hair that I realized how horrible the mullet was. From the corner of my eye, as I walked past mirror, a horror filled moment of déjà vu sent me back to the eighties when I insisted upon having the same hairdo as my friend Renee. My mom took my sister and I to the beauty school where the unthinkable was performed on our heads. The style didn’t last too long as I soon admired my friend Peggy’s hair cut which was one of those mushroom cuts, the kind you now see on really old people and are died a light powdery blue or airy lavender.
I guess that makes me a trend follower, or did. Because, from my current do, it’s obvious that I don’t, unless I count biker dudes and dudetts as my most stylistically admired set of friends. If I could truly manage it, of all people’s hair that I, as an adult, would imitate, it would be Stacey London, minus the grey streak. Actually, I’d take the grey streak if it meant I could have super powers.